


Different (Corm-mas 2020)

by GTRWTW



Category: Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith, Strike (TV 2017)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Christmas Presents, Christmas Smut, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Pining, Post-Canon, Post-Troubled Blood, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-10
Updated: 2020-12-16
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:54:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 7,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27983379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GTRWTW/pseuds/GTRWTW
Summary: I tried again to combine all the prompts into one long fic. I had only intended for this to be a couple of chapters, but it just kept growing, and so it ended up here.I really hope you enjoy it!
Relationships: Robin Ellacott & Cormoran Strike, Robin Ellacott/Cormoran Strike
Comments: 87
Kudos: 116





	1. Shopping

"I'm not doing this, Robin."

Strike's clear anguish tugged at Robin's heartstrings; he looked utterly miserable. However, Robin's overriding emotion was exasperation.

"Cormoran, is this necessary? It's not the ordeal you think it has to be," she replied bracingly.

"Robin." Strike paused, waiting for Robin to look directly into his eyes before he continued. "If I have to battle my way down Oxford Street in December one more time, I'll have a breakdown," he said seriously.

Robin noted Strike's self-pitying expression and laughed at how ridiculous it was. He was a highly capable man; he dealt with serious issues on a daily basis. He had much bigger problems, like the scattered family he refused to talk about, and their current undercover case that was proving both difficult and dangerous. He had boasted a successful military career and had attended dead bodies without so much as flinching. And yet he felt sheer horror at the thought of Christmas shopping.

"Stop laughing," said Strike, the corners of his mouth fighting to turn upwards. "It's not bloody funny, Robin. I've been putting it off but I can't wait any longer. Every bloody year it gets worse. It's busier, the music's louder, the people are younger and more obnoxious -"

"What's their age got to do with anything?" asked Robin, stung. She was touchy about age gaps. She told herself to get a grip.

"Nothing, really," answered Strike, glancing at her in a would-be casual manner. "But you go in the shops, and there's always a twelve-year-old in the doorway welcoming you, and then a ten-year-old stacking shelves and I swear the ones manning the tills are only just seven. It makes you feel like a -"

Robin was laughing now, moisture leaking out of the corners of her eyes. "Like a what?" she asked.

"A dinosaur. Or a Neanderthal." Strike looked at her and nodded his head, as if to add emphasis to his rant.

"All right, Grandad. Let me introduce you to the miracle that is online shopping," said Robin drily, gesturing to Strike to move away from the computer with a flap of her hand. She wheeled her chair over and brought up the homepage for Liberty, purely because she knew it was a department store with which he was familiar. Strike edged closer, curious.

"Look, you can filter by what you're looking for," said Robin, clicking menus. She navigated to 'women's fashion', and then realised that her choice might have been interpreted as a suggestion, and rushed to show Strike the search function instead. 

Strike leaned closer, took the mouse, and investigated. He came to a section entitled 'gifts', and then 'gifts by recipient'. He turned to Robin, his expression half incredulous, half amused.

"You mean to say, after all this time, I could have just gone to a website and clicked 'Christmas gift for my sister' and it would have shown me options? And I can smoke and drink beer while I'm doing it?"

Robin laughed again. "Yes," she said, rolling her eyes, "can you believe it? And they'll deliver the goods right here so you don't ever have to move. It's like magic."

"Bloody hell. Put the kettle on, Robin, and let's go Christmas shopping!" Strike cracked his knuckles and fished a notebook from the desk drawer. Robin stood, smiling down at him, fondness writ large across her face. Strike seemed to check himself; he looked embarrassed.

"Figure of speech. You can go home, obviously. You don't have to stay with me while I do it."

Robin felt lighter than she had in weeks as she replied. "I'm happy to stay and help. Coffee again?"

"Tea, please. Thanks, Robin," replied Strike.


	2. Call

"What did you get for Lucy in the end?" Robin held the mobile tight to her ear, hoping her hair would conceal its light from her target's eyes, should he turn and look at her. She needed him to believe the car was empty. She should end the call.  _ Two more minutes _ , she told herself.  _ Two more minutes, and then you have to hang up. _

"Scarf. It's got puppies on it, and it cost a fair bit, just for a scrap of silk. Not my kind of thing, but the saleswoman assured me it's in fashion. Did you know that you can message them online, and they help you?"

Robin laughed out loud, her left hand wandering towards the open packet of Maltesers on the passenger seat beside her. She ate one before replying, sucking her fingers clean of the chocolate that was starting to melt in the heated interior of the Land Rover.

"Yes, I did," she said, amused. "I hope you're happy with it, anyway. I still don't know what took you so long getting online for your shopping. Technophobe," she joked.

"Well, thanks for dragging me into the twenty-first century," said Strike drily. "Actual Christmas shopping was a nightmare last year. I think it'll be a while before I'm ready to try again."

"Still no plans for Christmas day?" asked Robin cautiously.

"No."

Robin heard the creak of his office chair and knew that Strike was leaning back. She pictured him sitting there, his left hand clutching the phone, the other behind his head. His shirt would have ridden up slightly as he leaned, the gap revealing a strip of golden skin just above his waistband. She'd seen it before; it had a smattering of coarse, dark hair. It was surprisingly taut. She wondered how much weight he'd lost in the last year. He'd certainly been working out more often. Robin gave a start as she realised he was speaking to her.

"...would you say it's time to switch him out, or not?"

"Sorry, bad connection," she lied. Say it again?"

"The Miller case. I'm wondering whether to switch Hutchins out. He's fairly certain they're both at it, but he can't see a way to prove it without nicking the paperwork."

"Yeah," said Robin absently. The case bothered her; she worried that they had inserted Hutchins into a precarious situation, and she felt guilty for thinking about Strike's stomach when she should have been concentrating. "Cormoran, do you think we could get arrested for this? Viewing sensitive information?"

Strike's reply came easily, and his voice was reassuring. "We haven't seen anything that any employee there isn't party to, and we haven't shared anything externally. If we find the proof we need we take it straight to the boss. I don't see why we would get into trouble," he said. 

"All right. Could we start over with Michelle, do you think? She might be able to do a better job at getting the girlfriend onside. Make friends with her."

"Yeah, I guess so. I'll call her tomorrow. We'll have to have the staff meeting early on Wednesday, or we'll never make it to Bow on time for Jennings."

"No problem. I'll see you tomorrow then? I'm on surveillance until midnight," replied Robin. Strike understood the hint.

"I'll let you go. But listen, Robin -" he hesitated. He wondered whether it was just the case that was weighing on her, or there was something else. "Don't come in tomorrow. You're owed time off."

"You don't want me to come into the office?" 

"You need the rest," said Strike, avoiding the actual question. "But -" he hesitated again. "I'll call you. In the morning, if that's okay."

"Okay," Robin replied, her smile reflected in the windscreen of the tank-like car.


	3. Early

The next morning, Robin ignored Strike's insistence on a day's leave and headed for Denmark Street. Cheerful despite the icy wind, she sang as she ascended the spiral staircase.

_ "I don't want a lot for Christmas _

_ This is all I'm asking for _

_ I just want to see -" _

The office door sprang open and Strike stood there, puzzlement and pleasure fighting for room on his face. Pleasure won out, and he positively beamed at Robin as he took a silent step back to allow her to enter. 

"I knew you'd come anyway," he said.

"Well, why did you bother asking me not to, then?" Robin replied with a sarcastic smirk. "Tea?"

"Yeah, great. Thanks," replied Strike, and Robin moved over to the kettle.

"Why are you up so early, anyway? Don't you like sleep?"

"I'm not up early, I'm still awake from last night and I've got things to tell you," she switched on the kettle and dropped tea bags into mugs. She hadn't taken her coat off, but she stuffed her scarf into the handbag that was still by her feet. The present she'd brought was hidden inside, wrapped in gold, lurking there until the right moment. Robin rubbed her hands together and blew on them.

Strike approached her and wrapped her clasped hands in one of his, feeling the frozen numbness of the fingers, and squeezed.

"You're freezing. Is that why you're trembling, or have you got something awful to tell me?" Strike's hand was still on hers. Robin laughed too loudly; a high note, forced out as her pulse leaped. 

She shook herself, and was glad to hear her voice sounded almost normal as she spoke. "Nothing awful. Let's go through." She handed Strike his tea, and the partners retreated to the inner office to discuss their most pressing case.


	4. Plans

An hour or two later, Strike put down his pen and the last of his cardboard folders, and leaned back in his chair. The familiar creak made Robin look; her eyes flicked across the gap, darted up to his face, and then swept away, embarrassed.

The radio played Christmas hits that Strike alternately hummed or hated. There were several Christmas songs that were, to Strike, akin to fighting his way down bustling Oxford Street in late December: an unpleasant but inescapable part of celebrating Christmas in London. Some songs, however, instantly transported him back to the little sitting room in St Mawes where he and Lucy had sat, cross-legged on the rug, and tied ribbons to chocolates before his Aunt Joan had hung them artfully on the ancient artificial tree. 

A song that Strike didn't know began with a blast of bells and electronic drums. To his surprise, Robin grinned and leaned over to turn up the radio.

"I love this one," she said sheepishly.

"Can't say I know it," Strike replied, smiling.

_ "It just wasn't the same…" _

"You know, I used to hate all Christmas music. But I realised the other day that it's mainly Christmas shopping I hate. The music isn't too bad when it's not being piped through a department store," Strike mused. "Anyway, out with it. What's on your mind?"

Startled, Robin looked at Strike suspiciously. "How do you - what makes you think I'm -"

Strike laughed gruffly. "You've got that look. Tell me I'm wrong," he challenged, his eyes gleaming with merriment.

_ "Make sure that you know…" _

Robin grinned back reluctantly. She took a deep breath, steeling herself. Was this a bad idea? She couldn't decide how much of a risk it really was.

Strike was watching the pink tint move slowly across her cheeks, and wished more than anything that he knew what she was thinking. "Please talk to me. You're killing me over here," he said playfully. Robin stood abruptly, and disappeared into the outer office. The soulful voice continued to blast from the radio.

_ "But then, one day, everything changed…" _

Robin returned, carrying her handbag and wearing an expression of grim resolve. She held in her other hand a small, flat something wrapped in shiny gold paper. It was the size and shape of a Christmas card and Robin clutched it as though it might escape. She sat down on her chair, facing him squarely. Strike looked at her, infinitely curious. He realised that she was giving him a present, and her obvious nervousness gave him an unexpected tingling feeling.

"I've got something for you. I - well, I thought you would enjoy it and I figured - I mean -"

"You're in this state because you bought me a present? Do you regret it now, or something?" Strike joked, trying to lighten the mood. Robin didn't smile, and Strike wondered whether he had accidentally hit the mark.

"You can decide not to take it, if you want." Robin held out the package, her arm extended, looking him straight in the eye.

Strike took the gift from her without breaking eye contact. He could see that this meant a great deal to Robin, and so he tried to afford it a proper amount of respect. He ripped off the sellotape at one end, and carefully peeled open the wrapping paper. A single, folded sheet of white paper was revealed.

Cormoran read the printed information, his brow furrowed in concentration. Robin felt light headed as she waited for him to say something. He was silent as he raised his face, staring into her eyes, trying to read her intentions.

"I'm going away for Christmas?" asked Strike incredulously.

"We're going away for Christmas," Robin replied quietly.

_ "Knocked me right off my feet…" _

Strike said nothing, he simply looked at her.

"Look, this isn't just about you," Robin blurted out. "I had a dreadful Christmas last year. It was all about my baby niece and she's beautiful, don't get me wrong, but it was exhausting. All I wanted was to be on my own, or to just be with friends, or with someone who really - anyway, I told myself I wouldn't go back this year. And now that I won't be in the country, I have an excuse not to go, and honestly, that feels so good." Robin sighed, her earnestness overcoming her previous nerves. "I want to be with - a friend. I thought we could go away for a couple of weeks and forget about all the other bullshit. But if you don't want to…" she shrugged. "Well, it's your present. You could always take someone else, if you want."

_ "You're here, where you should be…" _

"Ah, Robin…" Strike rubbed his chin absently. Adrenaline was racing through his veins; he felt like a teenager. "I don't know what to say."

"Well, it's ok if you don't want to. It's probably not a good idea anyway. We do spend an awful lot of time together already," Robin gabbled. She looked away from Strike's face and shook her head as she spoke. "It's ok, I understand. I'm really grateful for all this, you know - what we've built. We work really well together and I don't want to ruin it, so you're probably right."

Robin turned to the desk and made a grab for the printed boarding pass. But as she reached out, Strike's hand fell down onto hers, stopping her in her tracks. She waited, a statue, not looking at him. 

"I would love to go away with you, for Christmas," said Strike. Robin's heart lifted, and Strike's pounded in his chest. "We leave on Saturday?"

"Yes," replied Robin, her voice breathy. She watched Strike's pupils dilate slightly.

"Oh, God," said Strike.

"What?"

"I hate packing." 

Robin threw her scarf at him.


	5. Flight

Saturday evening found Strike waiting outside the departures area of Gatwick airport, and the sight of the approaching black cab lifted his spirits even further. He watched Robin exit the taxi, lift her case from the boot, and pay the driver. Grinding out his cigarette, he sauntered over to her. 

"Evening," he said, with a cheeky grin. He was rewarded with a beaming smile that made his chest ache. "I still can't believe you bought us a holiday." 

"Well, it was a good deal. And it's really for me, like I said," Robin replied.

"Sure it is," agreed Strike sarcastically. Robin laughed. "Come on," said Strike, "let's go and check in."

"Already done it."

"What?"

"Oh for goodness' sake, Strike. The internet. It's a thing. Look it up," she joked. 

"I think I've heard of it," said Strike as he grabbed the handle of her suitcase and started to wheel them both towards the terminal entrance. "A really smart woman I work with taught me about online shopping the other day…"

Five hours later, their plane cruised over the Atlantic Ocean, and most of the lights were out. Small reading lights twinkled overhead, and Strike was unusually comfortable; they had been granted seats by the emergency exit, so that he had ample room to stretch his legs. He'd bought himself and Robin beers from the inflight menu, and had only been marginally disappointed when he'd received the small 330ml can. Mostly, he was hovering between surprised contentment and a vague feeling of unreality.

Robin's head had sunk towards his shoulder, inch by inch, over the last hour. Now it lay there comfortably, her golden hair drifting down his arm. He could smell her skin, a faint trace of Narciso lingering in their closeness. Strike listened to her even breathing, determined not to move even infinitesimally, in case he woke her. The heady satisfaction he felt at providing some comfort to her was both embarrassing and wonderfully pleasing. 

Some time later, she stirred; Strike felt the weight of her head lift off him and felt oddly bereft. 

"Hi, sleepyhead," he joked.

"Oh God, I'm sorry, Cormoran," she said softly, lingering sleep muddling her words. "I didn't mean to - you're so warm," she admitted, embarrassed.

"It's all - are you cold?" 

She nodded. "It's always overly air-conditioned on planes. I should have worn something long-sleeved."

"Well," said Strike, hesitating, "here."

He raised his arm slightly, a question, so that she knew what he was offering and had time to decline. She didn't. Robin leant into Strike's side, still heavy-eyed; Strike dropped his arm over her shoulders, and her eyes drifted closed.

Her hair brushed his neck. The skin of her arm was chilled. Strike wanted to move his fingers, to stroke her skin, and he fought against the urge. But she was curling into him, and laying a small hand gently on his chest, and suddenly there was no point in pretending any more. He pulled her closer and began to trail his fingers up and down her arm. He watched new goosebumps rise on her pale skin and tried to mimic her deep, calm breathing.


	6. Christmas

The island of Sal was a haven: a blue-skied, white-beached paradise in twenty-six degree heat. Robin had been worried that Strike's leg would hamper his enjoyment of the warm climate but, barring one anxious glance at her on their first morning, when he had walked towards her in shorts for the first time, he had seemed entirely unselfconscious. Robin suspected that his initial nervousness had more to do with their growing intimacy than the idea of displaying his prosthesis to strangers. 

They had swum in the pool; Robin had been astounded when Strike had turned towards her on his sun lounger, raised one eyebrow, and said, "are we getting in then, or what?" She had agreed, marking her place in her novel and removing the gauzy sarong she had tied around her hips. Strike had removed his trainers, unstrapped his prosthesis, and used his arms to convey himself, in a sitting position, the short distance from the lounger to the pool. Robin had watched his muscles bunch as he held his lower body off the ground. The day had suddenly felt uncomfortably hot, and the water was welcome.

They were staying in an apartment a stone's throw from the beach, and they'd returned there each evening to shower and change. They'd spent their evenings either in bars on the main strip or sitting on their balcony, sipping wine and eating fresh seafood they had bought in the markets during the day. Strike had surprised Robin yet again by drinking the wine, and she had questioned him on their third night, a raised eyebrow and a point towards the glass. She didn't have to say more; he understood her. "It feels different," he'd said with a shrug.

It did feel different. Robin relaxed gradually over the days, until she was frequently doing things that she knew would have racked her with nerves ordinarily. She wore swimwear in front of Strike without a second thought; she modelled dresses for him in the evening and asked his opinion. She asked him to apply sun cream to her back, holding her breath to avoid making a sound as his rough fingers spread the lotion across her skin.

On Christmas morning, Robin awoke to the sight of Strike in grey marl shorts, carrying two mugs of coffee. 

"Merry Christmas, Robin," he said, coming to sit on the end of her bed. He handed her one of the mugs and sipped from his own, averting his eyes briefly while she stretched and sat up.

"Merry Christmas, Cormoran. You didn't have to do this."

"It's only coffee," he said. "I thought of bringing you breakfast in bed, but…"

He trailed off, but Robin understood; they didn't have much in the apartment besides the basics. They'd been having breakfast in a small café along the road, which Robin now realised must be closed for Christmas. Still, she was touched by the thought.

"Oh well," she said cheerfully, "coffee will do. What time is it?"

"Nearly ten," replied Strike. "Come on, get up. Lots to do."

Robin giggled. "It's Christmas, and we're on holiday. We have literally nothing to do." She was perfectly cheerful at the thought.

"Wrong," said Strike. Bending to scoop something from the floor, he stood. "Come on," he repeated, and he threw her leggings at her.

Still giggling, Robin caught them and swung her legs out of bed, watching Strike's retreating back as she did so.

Robin entered the living room half an hour later, not in leggings, but in denim shorts and a cream high-necked halter top. Strike hadn't seen the outfit before, and he found himself staring at the bare skin of her shoulder. He cleared his throat and looked away, towards the low coffee table.  _ Get a grip, _ he told himself.  _ She was in a bikini yesterday. _ The memory didn't help.

Robin saw the coffee table and a slow smile spread across her face. Strike had laid out champagne, orange juice, pancakes, fruit, croissants, jam, butter, and chocolate sauce. Robin narrowed her eyes. "You don't strike me as a baker."

"Ha ha," said Strike, and Robin snorted as she realised her unintended pun. "I didn't bake anything. I ordered it, and it was delivered about an hour ago."

"How on earth did you find a company that would deliver on Christmas day?"

"Er… on the internet," said Strike.

"You didn't," said Robin incredulously.

"I bloody did."

And then both of them were laughing, and they fell into each other without comment or suggestion. Robin wrapped her arms around Strike's torso, and his arms wound around her neck. Strike swayed a little as Robin's weight rocked into him. Robin squeezed, and Strike marvelled at the simple pleasure of holding her, and feeling her gratitude for something so minor as breakfast. He felt a strange pressure behind his eyes, and he blinked it away.

"This was really thoughtful. Thank you," said Robin.


	7. Balcony

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So, after my little panic today and thinking I had lost the rest of this fic, the next few chapters may be posted thick and fast... We'll see! We're getting to the good stuff now anyway 😜

They took food and mimosas out onto the balcony, and spent most of the day grazing, chatting, and playing cards. Robin hadn't dared bring the Al Qaeda pack Barclay had given her for her twenty-ninth birthday, but they played with a generic set she'd picked up from a newsagent at the airport.

Afternoon tumbled into evening, and Strike and Robin lounged on the rattan sofa on their balcony, watching the sapphire sea in the distance. Strike had swapped his champagne for a tumbler of the whisky that they'd bought in the airport. Robin's hands were wrapped around an Irish coffee, and Strike had teased her for having taken a fine single malt and obscured its flavour with coffee and cream.

"So," Robin began. "Are you having a nice Christmas?"

Strike considered his answer. He could agree to it, and move on; 'yes' would surely be the expected response. The evening, and indeed the holiday, would continue in the same loping ease, and they would return to London in three days' time, and nothing would have changed but their subtle tans. Away from the liberation of the holiday atmosphere, they would retreat back into their professional partnership, having a few social drinks on special occasions, but mostly just discussing clients and maintaining distance.  _ Or, _ said a voice in his head,  _ you could just be honest with her. _

"No, I wouldn't say I'm having a nice Christmas, Robin," he said tentatively.

Robin's head fell sideways, and she looked at Strike with narrowed eyes. She noticed with interest that she would previously have been shot with a bolt of panic at his answer. But something about his tone had told her that tonight, here, things were different. She knew she wasn't wrong. Strike swallowed, and Robin fought to tear her eyes from his throat as his Adam's apple bobbed.

"This is the best Christmas I've ever had," he said simply.

Robin drew breath, and Strike watched the shy pride steal over her face, reddening her cheeks and making her look down. He tried to follow the trajectory of her gaze without it being obvious; he thought she might be looking at his forearm. 

He knew how Robin was going to respond; she would make a joke to lighten the mood. She would brush it off, pretending as they always did that these moments hadn't happened, or that their intensity was forgotten as soon as they had passed. But Strike was done with pretence and with brushing past his feelings. He knew that Robin cared about him. She wasn't very hard to read in that respect. But he pondered the extent of her affections: did her caring nature radiate out to him as it did to everyone in her vicinity, or had she targeted him specifically? Did the lingering glances she had been bestowing on various innocuous parts of his body translate, as he strongly suspected it did, into physical attraction?

Robin cleared her throat. "Well, being in a hot country will do that," she said lightly.

"No," Strike replied. "Being with you will do that."

Electricity zinged from Robin's scalp all the way down to the tips of her toes. She forced herself to breathe naturally, and took a slow sip of her drink. She swallowed and put her cup down on the coffee table.

"I've loved it, too. Being with you, I mean." Robin blushed a little more and looked straight into Strike's eyes. He was looking back at her with an unguarded expression that she didn't recall having seen before. Robin's eyes wandered, and she scanned him: legs, waist, forearms, throat. He looked edible.

"I never want this to end," Robin said dreamily. "I love my job, I love my friends, I love y- I love what we have together."

Strike's hand reached out and touched Robin's wrist, his fingertips featherlight on the soft skin. Side by side on the rattan sofa, they were both facing in, straining towards one another, Robin's legs tucked up underneath her. 

"I love what we have too, and I love working with you, but there's a fucking massive problem."

"There is?" asked Robin. She was afraid, and yet she wasn't; something in his eyes told her that he was exactly where she was. She couldn't help leaning closer. Strike's eyes lingered on her collarbone before he continued.

"For every minute of every day that I'm supposed to be watching adulterers' houses," Strike paused as excitement swooped through his chest, "I can't stop thinking about you."

Robin's smile was like a sunrise: slow and enlightening. Her pulse raced, and she knew Strike would be able to feel it through the fingers that still caressed her. She bit her lip.

"I don't do much other than think about you, either," she admitted. "I know I said you're my friend, but…" 

Strike was suddenly so close. His hand lightly brushed over her forearm; he leant his head towards her.

"Robin," murmured Strike. He heard her answering gasp and leaned closer, his gaze burning into hers. "You think about me?"

"Yes," she sighed. "I didn't know whether you felt the same." Strike gazed at her hungrily, as though some restraining cord was about to snap. Robin felt a thrill of anticipation as she suddenly knew - really knew, in her gut - that he was blatantly, forcefully attracted to her.

"What? How could you not -"

Robin swallowed. "You're just so - so inscrutable." The anticipation had not left her; it bubbled up, making her reckless. "You look at me, and I can't tell what you're thinking. Whereas I look at you… and all I want is to kiss you," she whispered.

"Then kiss me, damn it," he growled. A surge of arousal swept all the way up Robin's body.

"Oh my god -"

Robin barely had time to groan the words before Strike's mouth was on hers. One hand stayed on her arm, while the other ran up her spine and came to rest on her nape, fingers tangling in her hair. His thumb grazed her earlobe, and she trembled. 

"Cormoran," she gasped.


	8. Sure

Strike's hands roamed over Robin's skin, running up her arms and then down her spine, coming to rest on her hips. He flexed his fingers, exploring, cautious; he brushed the swell of her behind and she inhaled sharply. Strike slowed, pulling his mouth away, but Robin moved with him, surging forwards on her knees, pushing his head back into the back of the sofa.

She kissed him like he was the only man on earth; her lips devoured his, her hands frantic. She fumbled for the hem of his t-shirt, desperate for contact with his skin. Her senses were covered in him; she could smell the warm musk of his scent, feel the fervent strokes of his hands, taste the gentle probe of his lips. She found the taut skin of his abdomen and pushed her hands up under his t-shirt, groping at the hair she found there. She felt a rush of adrenaline as his hands mimicked hers, caressing her lower belly, and she knew she could easily become addicted to his touch.

Robin stopped suddenly and broke the kiss. Pulling back, she looked up and into Strike's eyes, looking for a clue to his emotions; she thought she identified excitement and longing there. 

"Cormoran, I…" Robin began. She sat back on her heels, wondering how to phrase her question.

Strike swallowed and shook his head a fraction. "Yeah, I'm sorry. We don't have to - we should st-"

"No," blurted out Robin. Strike looked at her, chest heaving. His hands rested on her hips; she could feel their even heat through her shorts, and she wanted nothing more than for him to move them just a couple of inches, onto the exposed skin of her thighs.

"I just want to ask you… I want to know, for sure. That I'm what you want."

"God, Robin," said Strike. His voice came out low and sincere. "You're - you're everything to me. I don't -"

He paused. He didn't know whether the words would frighten her, but she deserved to know.

"I don't just want you, I feel like I fucking need you." He saw her smile, and returned it shyly. He inhaled, trying to regain control over his frantic heart.

"Cormoran, I don't want you to think that you have to say this because I brought you here, or because I've had a few drinks, or because I'm lonely or something. I know we might ruin our friendship if we do something stupid and I really -"

Strike cut her off. "Robin," he said, waiting for her to look at him. "I'm in love with you."

There was a beat of perfect stillness, where the only sounds were Robin's heart and the soft swish of the gentle ocean.

"Oh God, Cormoran," replied Robin, tears pooling in her blue eyes. "I'm -" She wiped her face, laughing. "I'm so in love with you."

"We'll make the agency work," Strike whispered. His eyes were locked onto hers, as though he could drink in her thoughts through her gaze. "And as far as ruining the friendship, it's a bit late for that anyway, don't you think?"

Robin laughed. "Well, yes," she admitted.

"But nothing has to happen. I'm just glad you know. Feels good," Strike said gruffly.

"This feels good," whispered Robin, and she trailed her fingers over the backs of his hands, still holding her by the hips. Strike closed his eyes briefly; when he opened them again, they were stormy.

"Does it?" His eyes were blazing.

"Yes," she replied.

"What about this?" Strike moved both hands upwards, slowly; with his thumbs and forefingers, he ran gentle tracks up the sides of her waist and ribcage. The shivers he elicited gave him his answer; but he waited anyway, his eyes on Robin's, his mouth inches from her skin.

"Yes," she panted, open-mouthed. Strike smiled knowingly. Her eyes implored him.  _ Kiss me. _

"This?" Strike wrapped his hands around her ribcage, pulled her closer, and lowered his mouth to her shoulder. Dropping kisses along the bare skin that had taunted him all day, he took one hand and pulled the halter strap away from her neck. He dragged his lips up her throat, his tongue darting out to taste her skin, and he settled in the hollow under her ear, kissing languorously.

Robin couldn't speak. She let out a moan and dropped her head back, forgetting there was nothing behind her, but Strike's big hand caught her. Supporting her body with his hand on her back, he continued his assault on her senses. His lips brushed her jaw as he moved side to side; he nipped her earlobe with his teeth. A garbled version of his name escaped Robin's lips. He turned and took her mouth in a rush, as though he was suddenly desperate to taste her.

Their tongues melted together, and all each could think of were the sensations of the other; there were no more worries, or concerns about work. They sank into the kiss, hands roaming over heated flesh, and their entwined form fell back against the sofa cushions. 

Robin's overwhelming thought was of pure desire. She was a little nervous, but she trusted Strike completely. She had never been more certain of what she wanted, and she had never been more certain of a man's respect for her. The thought emboldened her. She wound her fingers into his hair and grabbed, raking her nails across his scalp, pulling his mouth even closer. 

Strike groaned and deepened the kiss, tasting the flavour of the whisky and coffee on her tongue. He picked up one ankle and urged her legs around his waist, tipping her back; he leant over her as he laid her down along the sofa, her long legs stretched out, Strike seated between them. 

Strike needed to touch; he ran his hand up the underside of her leg, ankle to thigh. The hem of her denim shorts stopped him, and he dipped his fingers underneath, finding the curve of her buttock and squeezing gently. Robin moaned into his mouth, pleasure and anticipation building in her veins, willing him to abandon his control and rip away the clothing that was denying her the contact she was desperate for.

Strike heard Robin's moan and his breath caught in his throat. He pulled away from her mouth reluctantly, and his gaze fell onto her swollen lips. She'd never looked so beautiful. He trailed his fingers down the side of her face, and she closed her eyes and leaned into his touch.  _ Too much, _ he thought to himself.

"Sweetheart," he began. He felt blood rush to his face as his brain registered his use of the endearment. "Are you -"

Robin felt dizzy, but she understood what he was asking. "I am one hundred percent sure. I want this," she murmured.

"Well then, we need…"

"Come here," interrupted Robin. She scrambled to sit up, then stand; she held out her hand to him. Strike looked from her eyes to her outstretched invitation. He put his hand in hers, and allowed her to pull him back into the apartment and towards the bedroom.


	9. Request

Robin led Strike to her room and, with the gentlest of pressure on his chest, pushed him down onto the bed. He sat there, waiting silently, while she rummaged in the drawer of her bedside cabinet and pulled out a box of condoms.

"You brought condoms?" Strike asked, one eyebrow raised teasingly. It was Robin's turn to blush profusely.

"Yes, well…" she trailed off.

Strike reached out and caught her by the waist, pulling her in until she was almost flush against his chest, standing between his spread knees. He smiled indulgently up at her.

"Well, so did I," he told her.

Strike joined in with Robin's exhilarated laugh, and then gripped her by the hips and lifted her. She was on her back on the bed before she realised she was moving, giggling as Strike lowered himself over her body. But he looked into her eyes, suddenly serious. One long, searing look, and then he leaned in and kissed her like he'd never get the chance again. He bracketed her head with his arms, his fingers stroking into the hair at her temples, and explored her mouth with his tongue. 

Robin felt sparks fly across her skin. Strike's body was all around her: his arms by her head, his legs entwined with hers, the evidence of his arousal pressing against her stomach. His scent filled her nostrils; a heady mix of lavender, whisky, and clean male sweat. Robin felt dizzy again, and wound her arms around Strike's neck. He felt her reach for him, and a rush of affection surged through him. He nibbled at her bottom lip, eliciting a long, low moan.

"Fuck, Robin," Strike bit out. 

"I… Cormoran, please…" Robin moaned. She needed contact; she could hear her own shallow breaths and knew she couldn't wait much longer. Her body was arching, straining towards him with each lick of his tongue, every caress of his fingers. Strike reached for the fastening at the back of her neck, but couldn't get purchase on the clasp; Robin sat upright, lifted her arms and did it herself. 

The top fell to her waist, revealing a pale gold strapless bra. Strike looked at her for seconds, hardly believing he was here, with her. But Robin had a bold look in her eye. With one swift move, she had unfastened her bra, gripped it along with her top, and flung them both to the floor. She unbuttoned her shorts, stood, and let them drop; she maintained eye contact all the while, and Strike felt his erection throb at her boldness. She was impatient and Strike was glad; he was desperate to feel her writhing against him, skin to skin. He almost ripped off his shirt and shorts while she watched hungrily, and he had to force himself to slow down to remove the prosthesis.

There was a weighty pause while they drank each other in, and then they reached for each other in earnest, mouths clashing together, hands in each other's hair. Strike dragged Robin onto his lap, and she straddled him, rocking her hips into his. Strike felt her wetness through two layers of underwear, and he couldn't control the waves of pure lust that rolled over him. He sucked on the skin at the side of her neck. He trailed downwards with his other hand, slipped under the lace of her knickers, and pressed his palm against the landing strip of golden hair there. Robin moaned quietly, pushing her hips forwards, desperately seeking friction. 

Strike's mouth dropped to Robin's chest, and he rained kisses along her skin. His mouth marked a trail from her collarbone, down through the gap between her breasts. Her nipples were hard and pointed; Robin waited anxiously for him to turn his attention to them, but he tortured her, made her wait; she tugged his hair in frustration, and Strike smiled, his mouth against her chest, pleased to know that she shared his feelings. 

Robin took a deep, steadying breath and wriggled away, crawling up the bed, reaching for the condoms on the bedside table. Strike's hand reached out to caress the back of her knee, bereft at the loss of contact and willing to touch any part he could reach. Robin stilled. 

"Sorry," he murmured.

"No, do it again," whispered Robin.

Strike leant closer and grazed his fingers over the inside of her knee once more, trailing down the length of her calf, back to her knee, up the back of her thigh. 

"Cormoran…" she moaned. 

"God, you're beautiful," he said. Robin was still facing away from him, on her hands and knees, but she didn't move. Strike added his other hand, running both up her thighs, taking her softly by the hips. His fingers brushed over her hipbones. He ached with the restraint of it, but he was determined to give her nothing more or less than exactly what she wanted. 

"Cormoran," she moaned, pulling him out of his thoughts. Her voice was throaty and soft.

"Touch me," she whispered.

"Really?" he asked. 

"I want you to. Please. Touch me," she repeated.


	10. Power

Strike moved one hand from her hip and trailed his fingers up the inside of Robin's thigh. He slowed as he reached the lace again, damp with her arousal. He moved closer, on his knees, angling his body directly behind hers. Keeping one hand on her thigh, he reached forward with the other to cup her breast. It was heavy in his hand, and he pinched the protruding nipple gently. Robin groaned, and Strike closed his eyes to the rush of pleasure he felt at the sound; he peeled the lace knickers down, and inserted one finger inside her. 

Robin threw out a hand to grab the wooden headboard, a high-pitched moan escaping her open mouth. Strike was angled over her; she could feel the hair of his thighs on her own, and the hard ridge of his dick as it pressed against her behind. He pushed his finger in and out, setting a lazy, decadent pace; she moaned harder as his finger pushed all the way in, and he rested his hand there for a second, circling his finger gently.

Robin was no longer in control of the sounds she was making. She didn't care. All she could think about was him: his hands, his mouth, the feel of his solid body against hers. He took his time with things, she thought to herself, and while she was desperate to finally feel him buried inside her, she relished the sensation of being revered. His finger thrust inside her, over and again, and she whimpered; she needed more. Needed all of him.

"Please…" she begged. "Now, please."

"Robin, do you want me to fuck you this way?"

"Yes, God yes," she panted, her head dropping forwards. "Please, Cormoran, now-"

"Hey," he said gently, "I've got you." He removed his finger and she made a sound of protest, but he added a second finger and entered her once more. His thumb found her clitoris, his fingers pinched her nipple again, and she cried out; it was too much but nowhere near enough.

Strike plucked the condom from the bedside table and ripped the foil with his teeth, so that he didn't have to stop the leisurely fingering that was rendering Robin mute, save for the shallow, gasping breaths that punctuated each thrust. He rolled the condom over his length, came closer to her, and slowly removed his fingers. He lined himself up with her silken folds, using his hand to direct his head across her flesh, stroking and teasing. He pushed the end against her clitoris and she mumbled his name. 

"Robin? Are you still good?" he asked, unable to see her face.

"Yes, I'm good. You're good. Please," she said again. 

Strike gasped her hips with both hands, and then entered her in a long, slow stroke. Robin's carnal groan was the very best thing he'd heard in his life; he was fiercely proud of pleasing her, and her pleasure was astoundingly beautiful. He retracted slightly, and then pushed in further. It took three or four times to be fully inside, and Robin's low, sexy moans gave him instruction. He knew she wanted him deep; he pressed into her, rolling his hips, and her knuckles were white on the headboard, her moans getting higher and higher. 

Robin felt as though she was outside her own body, looking in: the pleasure was indescribable, and she could form no coherent thought. Strike's love and attention had made her feel strong, sexy; she felt the power of her position even as he pushed into her from behind. He was following her lead, and she was relishing every second.

Strike picked up the pace, and Robin dropped her grip down from the headboard to the pillow; she grabbed it with both hands, the fabric bunching in her clenched fists as she cried out. Strike's growls mingled with her cries and Robin knew, just knew, that there would never be anyone else who would make her feel this good. Her body was alive with passion and heat. Strike ran his hands up her sides once more, and her skin sparked as though lit by a fuse. He lifted and stroked her breasts, rolling the nipples between his forefingers and thumbs. Her vision was blurring. She could see only fire.

Strike tilted his hips, working with what he thought had been the highest moans, the hardest grips of the pillow: he found the right spot, and thrust against it, again and again. Robin's gasps were frantic, her moans near constant. She tried to form words, but couldn't; he felt too hot, too hard, too good. 

"Corm…" she managed, her eyes screwed shut.

"Fuck, yes, Robin. So good," Strike panted. "You feel so good. I can't stop."

"Don't st-"

And pleasure exploded in her brain, her whole body consumed by it; the heat billowed out, down her limbs, pooling in her belly. She dimly registered Strike shouting, "fuck!" and collapsing on top of her, his erratic breath in her ear, his hand on her arm, sending tingles from the spot.


End file.
